


breathe my hesitations into your skin

by turnip (calculus)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-08 01:12:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12853521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calculus/pseuds/turnip
Summary: being in love is a scary thing.





	breathe my hesitations into your skin

**Author's Note:**

> an ambiguous writing exercise because i miss writing for these boys, but i don't wanna have this associated with my main pseud lol bc this is v rambly n unfinished n in fcking 2nd person pov HAHAHAHA sry
> 
> [here's](https://vocaroo.com/i/s1QXPkjKmhax) a rough reading of this because i thought it'd actually work better as a spoken piece. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

_You don’t tell him enough._

That’s the problem, isn’t it?

Here you are: young and impenetrable, the whole world at your feet and the boy you love so dearly who loves you back, but it’s never enough. You look at him in the morning when you open your eyes, the first thing that draws your sight; the whisper of his breath against your skin and the warmth of his fingertips dragging along the curve of your back, and you sink into his grasp, like every cell in your body yearns to become a part of him.

You look at him when you eat, sitting across the table, a crossable distance and yet it feels so wide sometimes: it’s like you’re oceans away, and you swim fruitlessly to close the gap, but then he looks up, and you’re back at the table, just an arm’s reach away. But, you don’t make it.

There’s that poem, isn’t there, about sitting in a car with the boy you love and you both can’t say what you’re feeling, and that feels so apt for how it feels every second of every day for you. You are in the car, and you are sitting next to the boy you love, but you can’t say a single word—you don’t _dare_ to break that silence because it’s so much.

_It’s so much._

He loves you. This much has never been the question. You have known this, possibly since the day he helped you up from those broken swings, heart in his throat and watery eyes behind framed glass, and it has never left your thoughts. The image of a seven-year-old boy, with the wildest unfortunate haircut and the silly-looking glasses framing his small face, and the old eyes; sometimes, you joke that he’s truly the grandfather of the group, the seventy-year-old man in a twenty-something’s body, and he laughs back, the bright splash of joy almost too much to swallow.

But, you swallow it. You swallow so much these days.

You are so young, and it hurts sometimes, the potential of your youth stifling, rife with so much possibility. You have so much choice at your fingertips, and just as much rejection, and it scares you so much that you want to hide back under your bed. But fear has never been your biggest enemy.

No, it’s talking, isn’t it?

Oh, you love to talk. You can speak for hours if you like, just yammer on and on about everything that’s ever passed through your mind, and probably your friends would like to stick their dirty socks in your mouth just to get you to stop, but then. That’s not the kind of talking you’re afraid of.

You love him so much, and it hurts. You are so young and so in love, and it’s all just a bit much, really, how you can be feeling the enormity of your world and it just keeps spinning like it hasn’t a care in the world for you and your troubles. You love him, and you don’t tell him, not really, not the way he wants you to, not how he wants to hear it. You love him, and he loves you back so fiercely, so strongly that it would frighten lesser people—

And you’re one of them.

How can you be loved so much when it feels like you don’t deserve it? When he looks at you with adoration, and it feels like you can actually taste the blood at the back of your throat; it’s terrifying to be the center of someone’s world.

You don’t tell him enough.


End file.
